Poison of the Soul
by FaerieQueen3
Summary: This is the companion piece to "Poison of the Mind", so if you wish to read this, then please read that poem first. This is essentially that fic in prose.


_Hey ya'all :-). This is essentially what my other fic, "Poison of the Mind", would have looked like written in prose as well as a five stages of grief-ish fic. I recommend you go read "Poison of the Mind" before reading this. I hope you like it :-). _

_XOXO_

_FairieQueen3_

* * *

_Denial_

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

They were wrong, they were all wrong, they had to be. His Sarah was not gone, she simple wasn't. She couldn't be. Not when he heard her voice wherever he turned, saw the swish of her skirt just 'round the corner. Her musical laugh rang freely in his head and her voice, cracked with age at the end, was rich and musical once more.

She wasn't gone, she wasn't. She was made young again, and she was with him. She was not gone, and he was not mad.

* * *

_Anger_

Jareth looked at the beauty around him bitterly. How dare the flowers bloom? How dare the air be so fragrant and the colors of the garden so bright? Did the flowers not know that their mistress was gone? Did they not know that she would never tend them again, never twirl down the cobblestone path, never inhale their sweet scents. How dare they go on as though nothing had changed, how dare the world not mourn the passing of it's most beautiful creature.

"You really mustn't think that way, my love. The seasons came and went when I was with you, and so they will now that I am not."

He turned and glared at the brunette who both was and was not beside him. How could she? How could she show him such happiness for so many years only to abandon him-and then now, to torment his every living moment with the sight and smell of her how she was in her youth only for him to turn and find empty air.

Damn her, damn everything.

* * *

_Bargaining_

Jareth woke to a feminine hand brushing against his face. At one time, this would have been a welcomed gesture. At one time he'd have pressed his face into her palm and kissed his way up her arm to her lips. But this was now, and now it was a blessed torture.

He opened his eyes already knowing that she wouldn't be there. But oh, he could _see _her! The memories of every time she had stroked his cheek, brushed stray hairs away from his eyes, were so vivid in his mind's eye that he could almost imagine she was truly there. Warm, beside him, _alive. _

"Oh Sarah," he whispered to the air, "What I would not give to hold you..." He imagines her sympathetic gaze, her sweet, consoling kiss. If only it was true.

* * *

_Depression_

Pain. Oh God, it was everywhere. It was inside him, and around him, and clawing it's way through his heart and infiltrating his soul with it's dark, all-consuming horror. He stayed in his chambers nearly all the time now, only coming out when physically dragged to be force-fed by his advisors who were beside themselves with worry for their king.

"You must rest Sire,"

"You must eat Sire,"

"You must...You must...You must..."

Sarah used to make him eat her god-awful soup when he was ill. Sarah used to pull him away from his work to get a moment's rest. She still did sometimes, when it was very bad. With every word, with every concerned glance, he would look into their eyes and see her staring back at him. "You must live," they would all chorus, but why? What was the point? Why would he ever wish to live in a world without his beloved queen?

* * *

_Acceptance_

According to his psychological advisor, he was supposed to someday accept that Sarah was gone. _Accept it!_ As one would accept the passing of the seasons or the death of a sparrow. Sarah was no sparrow, she was his angel.

So if "acceptance" meant that when he heard her voice he no longer answered her, did not berate her when he could not breathe for the amount of perfume, then yes, he had accepted it. It it meant that when he asked for the time, what was for supper, what she had done with her day, he knew that the answer that was given in her voice, with her tones, was only in his head, then yes, he had accepted it. It it meant that when he woke with her in his arms he no longer kissed her phantom cheek for his lips to land on her pillow which still smelled of her, then yes, he had accepted it.

But it meant to acknowledge that the phantoms he saw would never be solid, that her garden became dead and brittle from the lack of a care-taker rather than lack of care, then no, he would never, ever accept it.

* * *

_xoxo_

_FairieQueen3_


End file.
